


Ripple Effect

by Tenoko1



Series: Christmas One-Shots [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BroBondCC, Burnt out characters, Christmas, Exhaustion, Gen, Injury, Sick Dean Winchester, brief mention or appearance by other characters, case goes wrong, christmas gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Finishing up a case battered and hurt, Dean and Sam make it back to the bunker wondering how much is left before they burn out entirely.In all the repetition of monsters, road trips, and cases, it seemed they forgot more than a few things.--“At least I’ve got you, right?”Sam nodded. “Yeah, of course, Dean. We’re brothers. I’ve got your back like you’ve always had mine. Nothing changes that.”





	Ripple Effect

**Author's Note:**

> #4 of my BroBondCC fics for 2018. More Christmas fics will probably follow this, since I didn't get them all in in time, but they won't be qualify to be entered in the challenge. This is will make six Christmas fics for 2018, plus three podficced versions (and the rest to follow).

It was some god-forsaken hour when Dean and Sam trudged out of the woods to where they’d parked the Impala behind a dilapidated barn and out of sight from the road.

The snow crunched under the soles of their boots, the cold longer bothering them. Their feet had gone numb hours ago. Most of them had, actually. And what wasn’t numb was screaming its protest at the recent abuse they’d been put through.

Getting knocked around by monsters and into walls or trees-- or even ten feet through the air before landing, skidding and rolling on the sharp snow and ice-- was not as easy to bear as it had been ten, fifteen years earlier.

Dean had barely possessed the coordination of his fingers to set the stupid thing on fire once they’d killed and doused it.

They would have warmed their fingers for the first time in hours had the burning flesh not stunk like a rotting hellhound.

The weary trudge back to the car had been quiet save for their boots on snow and the soft shush of fresh snowfall.

Despite the lip balm and scarves, both of them had mouths that were cracked and bleeding. Sam had a split lip and a blossoming bruise across his chin and jaw. Neither of them had made much of a sound when he’d had to pop Dean’s shoulder back into joint.

God, they were getting too old and too tired for this.

They didn’t so much put their bags and equipment in the trunk as they did stop supporting their weight and let them fall with thunks and crashes before shutting the trunk and moving to collapse into the front seat.

As the engine came to life and they sat letting her warm, heat slowly starting to trickle into the car and neither spoke.

Sam was slunk down as far as he could, head leaned back. He could fall asleep right then and there were it not for the knowledge the car would run out of gas, and the heat would go with it, then they’d be pushing her down the road.

He opened his eyes, sliding them over to Dean without turning his head. Dean was positioned similarly. Sam thought he’d sustained some cuts beneath his layers that needed to be cleaned and bandaged, if not stitched. He’d definitely thought he'd seen where the coat had been ripped or--

“Motel?” he asked, voice a raspy whisper of sound nearly drowned by the comfortable purr of the Impala.

“No,” Dean said. His eyes slid open and he lurched to a proper sitting position, foot on the brake and putting the car into gear. “I wanna go home.”

They didn’t say anything else as they left farmhouse in the middle of freaking nowhere. Once they drew closer to civilizatino, both their phones started to vibrate with notifications they'd missed.

Dean looked at Sam.

He dug out his, regarding the time and notifications for missed calls and text messages with muted interest.

_2:32 AM, December 24_

His thumb tapped and swiped away.

“Jody stopped by,” he said, thumbs moving over the screen to answer Jody and Cas’ concerned texts with the reply they were headed home.

Dean grunted, and silence settled over the car.

Sam regarded him. “Do you need me to stay awake?”

“No.” He didn’t even bother to turn on the radio, knuckles white and eyes fixed on the road.

“We can stop if you’re--”

“I wanna go _home_ , Sam.”

He nodded and settled further into his seat. “If you need to switch off, pull over and I’ll drive.”

His brother made a sound of acknowledgment.

Sam no more than closed his eyes before he was asleep.

 

 

Somehow, they made the ridiculous drive in one shot, nearly evening by the time they pulled into the garage.

Dean never swapped out with Sam to drive, which left him awake for some thirty-six hours, most of which had been spent on the road or hunting a monster through a snowy forest.

He wanted to go home with a mild-desperation that was like a junkie for their next hit, a crawl beneath his skin that had him pressing down on the gas too hard, anxious with impatience anytime they had to stop for gas or bathroom breaks.

He was tired in a way that went well beyond needing sleep and his bed or the way his muscles and body screamed at him.

He was burnt out.

Not entirely, but he was drowning, choking and trying to prolong his last sips of air.

He was tired of fighting and cases and monsters and blood and bruises and graves and blisters and bags packed with an arsenal.

There was only so much that could reasonably be expected of a person, and he’d done a thousand times that. He and Sam both had.

How much more did they have to give? How much more would they be expected to give? Especially when there was no end in sight, and it didn’t make a damn lick of difference? The monsters were still out there. Would always be out there or in his head.

Packed on with scars and traumas and repression and nightmares and…

Dean just wanted to go home.

He’d wanted the safe and the quiet. Wanted a hot shower and a clean bed. His bed.

There was dirt and grime and sweat stuck to his skin. He had dried blood and fabric that pulled at his wound if he moved wrong. His shoulder screamed. It was too much for too long, and he was suffocating and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of it.

Sam hadn't spoken the entire car ride, both of them too used to long drives with each other they didn’t have to talk, just anticipated the other one’s actions because they’d been doing it Sam’s entire life.

When they trudged through the hall and into the War Room, both he and Sam stopped. Dean blinked, feeling wholly detached from reality and going through the motions, brain in Safe Mode, watching it like it was happening to someone else.

Several heads swiveled their directions, Dean attached names to faces with zero emotion. Mechanically. Cas, Jack, Jody, Claire.

Their faces changed, tightening or even alarmed. Cas and Jody both pushed themselves up, palms flat on the illuminated surface.

His eyes took in other details (Garland. Lights. Tree.) and quickly disregarded all of them as trivial and unimportant to accomplishing the next task.

“We’re home,” he said, voice mute, aware as Alex appeared and took the weapons bag from him without question or a sound, slipping by quiet and unobtrusive as a mouse. He looked toward the hall. “I need a shower.”

Cas was in front of him and Dean flinched away from his touch, brain screaming at him that anything else, even a concerned touch, was one more sensation than it could take.

“Don’t.”

Blue eye searched his face, brow furrowed with worry as he nodded and stepped to the side. “Go get in the showers. Both of you.”

They obeyed. It had been the next objective anyway.

“Jack. Claire.” That was Jody. “Go get them changes of clothes. Alex, where’s your med kit? I’ll make ice packs.”

Sam looked over his shoulder, hazel eyes dull. “Just Dean.” He shook his head. “Dislocated his shoulder.”

“Dean, you’re bleeding,” Cas insisted, worry pressing in his voice.

Sam’s head swiveled, angling to the side and noting the dark patch on his brother’s jacket that had been hidden under his coat. Claire had come behind him, careful not to touch him as she helped him out of it.

“Was bleeding, Cas,” he rasped. “ _Was_.”

Jody jerked her chin at the Castiel. “Go help them.”

Sam had already stepped past Dean toward the shower room and Dean followed, not caring what Jody meant or expected by that.

Once they were in the shower room, Sam gingerly peeled off clothes, turning on the spray while still half-dressed before disappearing into a stall.

Dean took longer, in a daze like his brain had stopped sending him instructions. He just stood in the middle of the room, vacant eyes turning to the door as Jack and Claire dropped off bundles of clothes. Soft murmuring between them with Castiel before Castiel was back at Dean’s side between one blink and the next, saying Dean’s name like Dean hadn’t heard him the first time. Or second.

“What?” he asked.

Long fingers carefully held the hem of his shirt, careful not to touch him. “You need to take these off,” he said. When Dean didn’t respond, he said, “I’m going to help you take them off so we can get you clean and treat your injuries.”

Dean nodded and stood watching from outside himself as Castiel carefully removed one layer of clothing at a time, being agonizingly careful about pulling the material away from the scratches to one side of Dean’s lower back.

When he helped Dean out of his t-shirt, he sucked in a sharp breath, body going stiff. “Dammit, Dean.”

Following his eyes, Dean looked at the motley bruising around his shoulder with clinical interest, the other bruising across his body. Sam had put the joint back into place without incident. There weren't bone fragments to worry about, just the abused muscles, tendons, and ligaments and such that had been injured and abused.

Dean had just stepped into the shower stall when Sam’s beside him cut off, shower curtain rings scraping as it was pulled aside.

“Here’s your clothes,” Cas said. “Report to Alex in the War Room once you dress. Have either of you eaten?”

They hadn’t. They'd stopped only for gas and to relieve themselves. Dean was vaguely aware Sam had had the sense to get them bottles of water on one of their stops but beyond that…

“No.”

“Jody’s heating some soup you can eat while Alex checks you over--”

“I’m fine, Cas.”

“I am not _asking_ ,” he snapped, whip-like and angry. There was a pause and his voice was barely controlled when he spoke again. “You went off-grid for hours, Sam. I can’t just _fly_ to the two of you anymore. I can’t _heal_ you. I had to _wait_ , like the human I am, and hope the two of you came home. Then endure the miserable hours between your two-word message and when the two of you walked in looking half-dead.”

Dean stared unseeing at the tiles, water dripping from his lashes and slowly chasing the numbness from his limbs.

He didn’t need to see to know the way neither Sam or Cas were looking at the other one.

“ _Please_ ,” Cas finally said.

Sam didn’t respond, but Dean knew he would do it.

“Dean?” Cas called gently, his voice from by the shower curtain. “Are you okay?”

He wanted to say no, that he wasn’t okay. He was burnt out and tired and sore. He wanted to say he wasn’t just limping his way through the motions anymore, but dragging himself by his fingernails and ready to give up. He’d given his fair share and then some. They all had. And for all of it, the world wasn’t any different.

That wasn’t what he was asking though. He could practically feel Cas’ desperation to help, even without being able to see him.

Cas would, undoubtedly, climb in the shower stall with him if Dean was unable to function enough to manage the simple task. But Dean was still suffocating under an oppressive weight and raw nerves and no air, mentally wanted to throw up walls and doors and tuck himself into a corner until the chaos wasn’t as loud and tearing at him. He didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t even want anyone within touching distance. Like a feather might shatter him.

He needed to get his head on right, shake it off. Check on Sam.

When he couldn’t function for himself anymore, that was his fallback. That programming and instinct his father had ingrained into the core of who he was to the point self-identity had become… well. He’d become the soldier his father ordered. Had become his brother’s keeper and parent, trying to pick up the pieces of a shattered life the best he could at four-years-old and raise them both.

Some traumas and behaviors always stayed with you.

“‘M fine, Cas.”

To prove the point, if only to himself, he dabbed shampoo into his hand, clumsily rubbing it over his head and into his hair, distantly registering as his fingers found a tender spot from a hit that had made his ears ring.

“...I’ll clean and cover your wound when you get out, then Alex will look you over while you eat something.”

Dean said nothing and the running, splashing water became the only sound filling the empty space in the room and in his head.

 

 

There was blank section in his memory. General knowledge he had finished showering, had dressed, been looked after by Alex and Cas, made eat, given an ice pack, had seen Sam... but he didn’t remember it.

Instead, he was laying in his bed and staring at the ceiling with a gap where he’d zoned out again. Remembered Point A and Point B, but not the process of getting from one to the other.

“You okay?”

Sam was standing in the open doorway of his room. Bruising more prominent, lines sharper, shadows darker.

Dean had a minute to remember him years earlier, hallucinating an angel that wasn’t there and not sure what reality even was anymore, haunted by everything around him and unsure what, if any of it, was real.

It was the white t-shirt and soft grey sweatpants.

Pushing to a sitting position, he winced, biting back a hiss of pain as his shoulder flared red-hot. The sharp movement made his back throb from the claws that had aimed to cleave his kidney from his body.

Had to give it to Alex, kid made a great nurse.

“What are you doing up?” He cast his gaze around. How long had he been there? Why hadn’t shut the door and turned off the lamp if he was laying down? He hadn’t hit his head _that_ hard. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Dean, we drove all night and morning.” His smile wasn’t so much a smile as a tick of the sides of his mouth, an expression in his eyes, the angle of his head that meant he was worried. “I napped. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I was working on it.”

His lips pulled up at the corners, gaze dropping. “Dean, I’ve been standing here for ten minutes.” He looked up through his hair, their eyes locking. “You didn’t notice me until I said something. You were completely zoned out earlier. Have been since we walked out of those woods.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Dean looked away as he sighed. “I’m just tired, Sammy.”

“You’re still awake.”

“ _Beyond_ just sleep.”

Sam shifted, holding his arms and chewing his bottom lip.

When he still didn’t say anything, Dean shook himself and waved a hand. “Y’know what? Ignore me--”

“No--”

“I’m tired and need sleep and--”

“You’re _burnt out_ , Dean, I get it,” Sam insisted, big hazel eyes searching his face and wanting to be seen. “Don’t brush that off or play it down-- especially not to me. You were protecting me from monsters before I knew they existed. You’ve spent my entire life protecting me and complete strangers-- who may or may not ever know you were the one to save them.” His brow wrinkled and he shook his head. “You are understandably tired, Dean. We don’t get a reprieve.”

He pursed his lips. “Yeah, well…” unsure how to follow up on that since he couldn’t feel much aside from detached and numb in a way that had nothing to do with the meds he’d been given, he forced a smile. “At least I’ve got you, right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, of course, Dean. We’re brothers. I’ve got your back like you’ve always had mine. Nothing changes that.” Sam considered him for a moment. “It’s not just us against the world anymore, though. I think you forget and get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“Because nothing changes,” he snapped, then winced. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. “We fight and we hunt and we kill and we save the world and it doesn’t look any damn different for it.”

“Maybe because we keep punching the water the same way we always have.” He shrugged. “We keep thinking like two orphan boys isolated from the world and even the hunting community because Dad, frankly, did a terrible job at just about _everything_.” A surprised laugh bubbled out of Dean and Sam gave him a lopsided smile. “Maybe we need to realize everything about our lives and the world is different. Bigger, with more potential. We can treat it like that-- or we can do things the way we always have and stagnant and die in the process.” He raised and dropped one shoulder. “Just because it’s the way we started and it's familiar doesn’t mean it’s the _only_ or _best_ way to do things.”

Lowering his eyes, Dean nodded, not sure if he was agreeing-- or if he even had hope there was a different way for them.

With habit and familiarity came specific reassurances. They’d always managed okay, made it through and alive on the other side-- mostly. They always came back, and really, if Dean had to choose, of the two of them he’d still want Sam to make it through to the next hunt, even if he didn’t. He was the big brother, had raised him without any help, meanwhile there wasn't anyone raising Dean. Maybe it was that unusual combination, being a parent and big brother as a child. Sam’s life would always take priority over his own. He was okay with that, making sure Sam came out the other side of the fight even if he didn’t.

That was how things always ended. Death and fire and funerals.

Theirs or someone else’s.

Tires spinning and getting nowhere, in a world where nothing changed or got better. Watching people enter their lives only to be ripped out again.

‘Cruel’ was an understatement.

Another laugh, bitter and a touch hysterical escaped him. He wiped a hand over his face, covering his eyes.

“God, our lives are boring. Drive here, hunt a monster, drive there, do it again. Stuck in a hand-me-down car and searching through hand-me-down books doing the same thing we’ve always done.”

“Rinse and repeat,” Sam agreed with a chagrined smile.

Dean looked at him, face contorted. “Don’t you ever want more than this?”

“I always wanted more. That’s why I went to Stanford. I _wanted_ normal.” He made a face and waved a hand. “Or, well, not this. I lived with them but wasn’t one of them. I still wanted it though.” His hand slapped against his thigh when he dropped his arm. “Then there was Jess, and I was basically Dad, on a mission of revenge after losing the woman I loved. Trying to find Dad and keeping on the move was easier than going back to a shattered illusion of safety. Then, it was always one thing after the other until the new cycle was comfortable and familiar, but really just the exact same hamster wheel as ever. We fight under the banner of free will, but we’ve never been given any. Not really. Someone one always wants a say in how we live-- or if, when, and how we die.”

Dean huffed, dragging his gaze away. “Don’t I know it.”

One of Sam’s brows arched. “Scarier is probably all the machinations to control our lives we don’t know about.”

“All the people that _like_ us miserable or dead?” He scrubbed at his hair. “That wouldn’t surprise me. Too many people want to treat us like playthings for their sick games and amusement.” He looked at him, throwing up his hands. “How do so many people seem to hate us and I don’t remember meeting a single one of them before?”

Sam gave him a sad smile, leaning on the door frame with his head resting against it.

Numbness replaced by weariness and exhaustion, Dean sighed and shifted to pull back his blankets and get some decent sleep-- or pass out, whichever.

“We deserve better.”

“I know.”

“No, Sam, I mean, we _really_ deserve better,” he insisted, catching his eye with a scowl. “We fight, sacrifice, suffer, and bleed for complete strangers on a daily basis, we protect their illusions about reality, we protect them from reality… we deserve better than ending up one more hunter’s funeral while our friends and family stand around having to go on without us. We deserve more than living miserable lives on some God-forsaken hamster wheel, stuck in a car or on the road, before dying a bloody death without ever getting to have things for ourselves or freedom regarding our own damn lives.”

Gaze lowered and remote, Sam nodded. “Knowing we’ll always have each other no matter what just makes it depressing instead of reassuring.” His eyes met Dean’s. “I don’t want that for you. I know you don’t want it for me. We’ve bought and paid for a lot more than the bare minimum of existence. And, y’know, just because I grew comfortable in the hunter uniform and am actually okay with staying, doesn’t mean I want it like it used to be. Heck, you want to retire. Team Free Will and matching shirts on the beach, remember? I want that for you.”

He nodded and twisted, memory foam dipping with his weight as he sat. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”

“We _deserve_ getting whatever we want, Dean. Hunting or retirement or, I don’t know, marriage and adopting some kids or something. Getting a dog.” Dean considered him and was reminded again of when Sam had been in the hospital, gaunt and exhausted and ready to give up. “We deserve getting to live. However we want. This… It isn’t healthy. Hell,” he gestured to his face and then a hand to Dean’s shoulder and hip, laugh brittle, “it’s practically _killing_ both of us. This isn’t what life is supposed to be, setting ourselves on fire to keep other people’s worlds safe and happy. Doing the job is one thing-- the _right_ thing, don’t get me wrong-- but not like this. And not because it’s the way we've always done things.”

He dropped his gaze, eyes on a loose thread in his pajama bottoms. He plucked at it, scowling, with sharp, quick movements because Sam was right. And as much as it was true, they were both just venting because they didn’t know how to get free of the cycle, or worse, facing down the terrifying unknown of possibility and unforeseeable outcomes, something that wasn’t the same wash-and-repeat cycle.

They were stuck in abusive relationships with themselves and their lives, he realized with a laugh.

He smiled at Sam, and it was unsteady and sardonic. “At least I've still got you, right?”

The look he got was sad, a ticking up of his brother’s mouth on one side. “That doesn’t change, Dean. Nothing changes that. Ever. We’re siblings. That’s like being born with an automatic best friend.” He shrugged. “Even at Stanford, I knew all I’d have to do is pick up the phone and you’d come running. Same as I’d have done for you.”

Dean pulled a face. “I had to talk you into helping me look for Dad.”

His smirk grew. “Yeah, because we were looking for _Dad_. Had Dad showed up and you were missing, I’d have bypassed him to get to the door.”

Snorting a laughing, Dean rubbed his knuckles against his palm. “Same.”

Pushing away from the frame, Sam grabbed the door handle, closing it as he withdrew. “Get some sleep, Dean.”

“Night, Sammy.”

He paused to smile. “Good night. The morning will be much better, I promise.”

 

 

Dean’s head was throbbing and his eyes felt like sandpaper as he shuffled into the kitchen, pausing at the sight of Jody and Sam.

   They looked up from their workstations at the counter and stove, grinning at him.

   “Morning!”

   “Merry Christmas!”

   Frowning, he squinted at both of them, mostly distracted by the way his head throbbed in time with his shoulder and back. His throat was sore, and he wanted something hot and caffeinated, but also wanted to go crawl back into his bed and curl up in a ball with a pile of blankets.

   Jody frowned. “Dean?” Sam filled a glass was water and reached for the medicine cabinet. “You awake?”

   “I think that hunt is still kicking his butt,” Sam countered, holding out the water and dropping some Tylenol into Dean’s palm. Dean tossed them back, downing half the water before he found himself looking at Sam again, his brother’s brow furrowed, eyes dancing over his face. “Dean. You’re running a fever.”

   Jody swept forward, hands gentle on his face, expression serious and business-like. Her fingers were cold, making his eyes slide shut, the cool and dark an instant relief.

   “Yep,” she confirmed, hands falling away. “Probably feel like you went three rounds with a prizefighter, and then went three more, am I right?” She held up a finger, turning away. “I’d lecture, but you look miserable enough, so I’ll save it. We’re gonna get some breakfast and vitamins in you, and then you are going back to bed.”

   He shook his head, vision swimming. “I don’t feel like eating.”

   Sam pressed the glass of water back into his hand. “You’re sick. Of course, you don’t.” Dean’s eyes dropped to the water. “Have to take care of the machine, anyway.”

   Rolling his eyes and swearing under his breath, Dean downed the last of his water and shoved the glass at Sam’s chest before stumbling past him to a stool at the table.

   “I need some coffee.”

   Jody slid a plate of food in front of him, followed by Sam placing down a cup of steaming black coffee.

   The plate had scrambled eggs mixed with what looked like spinach and red peppers, two triangles of buttered toast, and a sausage link.

   His stomach turned at the thought of eating any of it. He pushed it away. “I’m really not hungry.”

   Sam slid it back in front of him. “Dean, you have hardly eaten for three days. Last time you ate was fourteen hours ago. Food and water will help. She didn’t even give you much. Two eggs and a sausage link. That’s one bite for you.” He slid into the seat across from him, hazel eyes pleading and obnoxiously sensible. It was something he’d perfected at four and had been using against Dean since. “Feed the machine, Dean.” Then, like a jerk, “Please?”

   Forcing out a sigh through his nose, Dean picked up his fork and jabbed it at him. “I hate when you use ‘ohana’ against me.”

   Sam grinned.

   Rolling his eyes, Dean tucked into his breakfast, blanking out his mind as much as he could, making his movements automatic and perfunctory. He didn’t say anything when Jody slid him a glass of orange juice, just met Sam’s puppyish expression with a glare as he picked up the glass and chugged it.

   He completed the entire task as quickly as possible, wanting to be back in bed more than anything, feeling himself leaning more and more on the elbow of his uninjured arm as he ate.

   When he finished, Jody was there, collecting the plates in a seamless, unobtrusive motion as Sam stood, eyes flicking over Dean’s form like he wanted to help him up but wasn’t sure where it was safe to grab.

   Dean leaned away from him. “Don’t,” he said.

   Sam showed his palms and backed away a step.

   Good hand on the table, Dean pushed himself up, wrapping his arms so that one cradled the other. “Get me the immobilizer sling, will you?”

   “Beat you to it,” Alex stated. He turned to see her leaning against the doorway, black material hanging from her fingertips. “Merry Christmas to you.”

   He scowled as she came forward to help him into it. “If you make one ‘getting old’ joke, I will _show you_ getting old.”

   Her movements were quick and efficient, and he noticed the way she fit him in the sling without ever once touching him.

   “Dean, you fought a monster in freezing temperatures, got thrown into a tree, a shoulder dislocated, and then drove some sixteen hours without sleep, but here you are ready to fight a bear if it pisses you off.” She stepped back, arms folding and head tilted. She smiled. “I wanna be you when I grow up.”

   He resisted the urge to pat her shoulder as he passed. “A better version of me, at least.”

   When he got to the War Room, he faltered, frowning at the garland framing the archway into the library, the Christmas tree, lit and decorated by the telescope.

   Castiel, Jack, and Claire were playing a board game at one of the tables.

   “What is all this?”

   “It’s Christmas, Dean,” Sam said, closer to the corridor and beckoning Dean to follow, brow furrowed like he wasn’t entirely sure if Dean wasn’t playing a joke. “We may have mentioned it? Twice? Just this morning?” His eyes slid to Alex. “Did you check him for a concussion?”

   “He’s not concussed,” she said. “Exhausted, dehydrated, low blood sugar, and injured, sure, but not concussed.”

   He waved them off, trying hard to sort through thoughts and images of the last twenty-four hours but finding any of it hard to recall. “I have a fever. Leave me alone.”

   “Off to bed with you, then,” Jody prodded.

   Dean obeyed Sam’s head jerk, tolerating his hovering as Dean made his way back to his room and bed. When he realized he was no longer wearing his robe, he looked around, confused and trying to remember when he’d taken it off, only to remember Alex’s quick proficient movements, helping him out of it and handing it off as she got him in the sling.

   Sam hung it on the hook on the back of his bedroom door as Dean got into bed.

   Dean watched with bleary, watery eyes as Sam unplugged his phone and put it on the nightstand, moving his face into Dean’s line of sight as he urged, “If you need something, just text me.”

   “I just want sleep, Sam.”

   He nodded and straightened. “Then sleep.” He flicked off the lamp, the room only illuminated by the light coming from the hallway. “I’ll check on you later.”

   “ _Yes, mom._ ”

   “No, that’s definitely still you. G’night, Dean.”

 

It was later. Dean wasn’t sure how much later or how he could even tell underground when there weren’t shadows or sunlight to track. Maybe his internal clock wasn’t as broken as the rest of him.

   His eyes snapped to the door right before there was a careful knock.

   “I’m awake, Sammy,” he called, fighting for a moment with the sheets, blanket, and his useless arm before he was sitting up and turning on the light.

   Sam stood in the doorway holding a tray with a steaming bowl. “Jody made soup.”

   Dean’s stomach growled inaudibly and he gestured. “Bring it here, then.” He shot Sam a dark look. “I could have eaten in the kitchen, Sam. I don’t need coddling.”

He shrugged and set the tray across Dean’s lap before dragging up the chair from in the corner and taking a seat. “No one’s coddling you. We’re treating you the exact same way you'd treat any of us if we were sick.” He arched a brow that Dean pretended not to see, appearing occupied with his soup and crackers.

It smelled good, beef and mixed vegetables that was plenty of both.

“You look better.”

Dean looked at his brother and the bruising around his jaw and split lip. “You don’t.”

“I’m not the one running a fever.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean began eating.

The silence was comfortable, familiar and well-cultivated from growing up on endless trips in the car, learning even at a young age to be quiet lest they make their dad mad and they paid for it once getting to the next town. Possibly some sort of grueling obstacle course or workout to help ‘rid them of all that extra energy.’

Remembering something from that morning, Dean cast Sam a look. “Did I sleep through Christmas?”

Sam shook his head. “Not all of it.” He shrugged. “Not like we’d made plans to celebrate it anyway. We worked straight into Christmas Eve, but I didn’t connect the date to anything until we got home.” He bit his bottom lip, glancing at the door before he admitted in a whisper, “It was meant as a surprise.”

Dean's shoulders fell with his stomach. “And we were off working a case while they weren’t able to get a hold of us.” He blew out a breath. “Only for us to walk in looking half-dead and I land myself in bed. Wow, we sort of ruined that, didn’t we?”

Sam pulled a face and shook his head. “Mm, not really. It was a last minute gift idea between all of them. The job just… happened.”

“What if we hadn’t made it back?”

“Don’t think like that.”

“But what if we _hadn’t_ , Sam?”

“We did,” he insisted. “That’s what counts, not ‘what if.’”

He looked down. “I’ll apologize.”

“For what, Dean? Killing a monster? Being human and catching a cold? Not being a mind reader?” He glared. “You monster. You should be ashamed.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Boys,” scolded Jody. They looked up to see her holding a large, flat present and giving them an exasperated, but fond expression. She looked at Sam. “I thought Alex warned you not to harass the patient.”

“He harasses himself, as is. I didn’t want him to do all the work.” He gave her an innocent look, palms up. “I'm practically helpful.”

Her mock seriousness was wiped away by a grin and she took a seat at the foot of the bed, shaking her wrapped box at them. “This wasn’t intended as a Christmas gift, exactly. It took a while to finish, and it just so happened to be in time for Christmas, so.” She shrugged. “I may have taken some liberties, made some breaches of trust, called in a lot of favors, possibly spread word through the hunter community, and abused my powers as sheriff to get this for you.” They huffed identical laughs and she held out the box to Sam. “I think you’ll see why.”

Taking another bite of his food, Dean looked at her from the corner of his eye, lip curling in a smirk. “You? An officer of the law abusing your position for selfish gain?” he teased as Sam undid tape and pulled away the shiny paper. “Have we really led you so far astray?”

“More like ‘for _your_ gain,’ Dean.” She shrugged. “I pledged to serve and protect-- that doesn’t just mean my citizens from crime-- in case all the monster killing and taking in troubled women didn’t give it away,” she said, gaze curious as she and Dean watched Sam flip back the lid of the box.

There was a sizeable faux-leather book in a bed of white tissue paper that had Sam frowning, his fingers skimming over the embroidered ‘The Road so Far’ on the cover.

“...is this a scrapbook?”

“Mm, yes. And no,” she answered, reaching for Dean’s tray as Sam moved to sit on the bed beside his brother so they could both see. “You could say it’s a follow-up report. A historian, if it makes you feel better.” She stood, moving to the door and casting them a look over her shoulder. “I’m glad you made it home in time for Christmas, boys. You deserve it.”

When she disappeared, they looked at each other and then down to the book, Dean opening the cover so that it rest across their laps.

There were photos of places and people, index cards with notes in different handwriting.

Sam gasped. “Dean, oh my god.”

Dean’s eyes darted over the page. “What?”

He touched the top left photograph of a women and two men. There was a small label beneath it. “It’s Haley.” Dean’s eyes scanned their faces, familiar, but beyond what his foggy brain could manage. He watched his finger slide down to the label. ‘Haley, Tommy, and Ben Collins.’ Wide eyes snapped to Dean’s face. “We saved her brother from that Wendigo in Colorado after I left Stanford.”

He met his eyes, then back to the photo. “...Sam, that was years ago. This is… this is a recent picture. It can’t be them,” he insisted, moving Sam’s hand out of his view to see the index card in neat cursive next to the photo.

_‘Thank you so much for saving my brother. Thank you for all the other siblings, friends, and families you’ve saved through the years.-- Haley.’_

Dean's throat seized, pin-pricks behind his eyes making his vision blur.

“Oh my god, Sam.” Dean's fingers trailed down the page, not able to reconcile what his eyes saw with the impossibility of it. “It’s Andrea and Lucas. And Charlie Patterson.”

Sam pointed to the photo at the bottom right of the screen. “Dean, that’s Becky Warren. My friend from Stanford.” His fingers skimmed over the photograph. "Look at her family."

Mouth moving silently, Dean’s eyes darted over the page as he turned it to reveal more photos and cards, sometimes newspaper cutouts, as names and places and faces jumped out at them.

“Dean,” Sam said, voice wet and wobbling, “these are all people we’ve saved.” Dean could see him wiping at his face from the corner of his eye Dean continued turning pages. “When Jody asked me to make her a file of any documentation we had of hunts we’d been on, I didn’t think…” A wet laugh burst out of him as two black and white photos took up the majority of one page. “Our mugshots?”

Dean tried to smile then pressed his lips into a hard line, trying to keep the tears out of his voice as he tapped another index card. “Apparently we have friends in law enforcement and the FBI who keep erasing our file from the record.”

They kept turning the pages, Dean occasionally having to look away until he had himself under control. Meanwhile, Sam kept sniffing and wiping at his face.

Jody’s picture was among the faces of those they’d saved, but an older photo from back when they’d first met her, hair longer and expression shy but amused as she caught the photographer in the act.

_‘Because of you, now even more lives get saved. Mine repeatedly. -- Jody’_

They kept making their way through the book, in awe and shock, occasionally jabbing a finger at a photo of a familiar face, not only people they’d saved but friends and allies they’d made through the years, lives they’d changed somehow.

   Page after page after page.

   “This makes it worth it,” Dean whispered, the sound harsh and ragged. “This makes all of it worth it.”

   Sam made a soft noise of agreement. “Who could have thought two kids growing up in a car would manage this?” Dean shook his head. “But…” He looked at him. Sam’s eyes were red-rimmed, nose an angry red. “But we can’t keep doing it like we have been, either.” Their eyes met. “It may have been worth it looking back, but going forward--”

   “--won’t do anyone much good if we get ourselves killed.”

Sam nodded. “Start relying more on our family, the friends we’ve made. Figure out a way to make the community more of a community.” He lifted one shoulder, expression hopeful. “No man’s an island?”

Head bobbing on a nod, Dean turned back to the book, hand trailing over a page of photographs. “We’ll figure out something. Something that works, for both of us, without forgetting the ripple effect this job has.”

Sam put a hand on his arm, stopping him from turning the page and making him look up. Hazel eyes regarded him, serious. “Don’t let this make you think you don’t deserve to rest or retire, Dean--”

“Sammy--”

“I mean it, Dean,” he urged, hand tightening. “We don’t get off one wheel just to get on another. And if _you_ wanted to stop running… you can. But we stop being Atlas, okay? It isn't all up to us.”

Throat tight, Dean dragged his gaze away, jaw flexing in an even more desperate attempt not to cry-- as if congestion didn't make it hard enough to breathe. He nodded.

Turning the page, he smiled at the sight of pictures of more of their family and friends, of Jack and Cas, of Jody and Donna, Garth and his family, Claire and all the girls, Max and Alicia, even friends they’d lost but found anew in the other universe.

He swallowed thickly. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please remember to always properly feed and water your fanwork creators: like, comment, kudos, reblog (and tag), and rec their fics/gifs/graphics/artwork/podfics/vids/other works to your friends. You may think they probably get praise already, but I promise you they don't. And certainly not enough. Small things will make their day and WEEK. If you're reading a fic/comic, watching an edit, admiring art, or something else, be it for the first time or the fiftieth, let the creator know.


End file.
